


built for the stars

by orionwalking



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, M/M, Multi, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionwalking/pseuds/orionwalking
Summary: Shiro's body wasn't built for the stars.





	built for the stars

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is my first ever voltron fic and i couldn't be more nervous. basically, this is going to be an exploration of shiro's chronic illness, and an exploration of the effects chronic illness has on a person in general. shiro's illness (spoiler) won't be magically wiped away by the galra -- in that sense, this is an au. 
> 
> this will be sheith, it will be slow burn, and it will be as real and raw as i can make it.
> 
> i hope you stick along for the ride.

The morning of the Kerberos launch is unseasonably and inexplicably cold for late August. The chill seeps into Shiro’s bones, wakes him up to pain radiating from what feels like every inch of his body. He doesn’t know where it starts, where it ends -- he does knows it wakes him up before his alarm does, knocks the wind out of him when he tries to sit up. The light streaming in from the open window feels like it nearly blinds him, too, eyes blinking until they can focus away the white spots at the corner of his vision. He can hear his joints creak when he moves. The birds singing out the window seem to be bothered by the cold, too, their chirping off-pitched. It takes him two tries to get the window latched, but he pretends it doesn’t. That his fingers don’t shake.

All pilots must be in top form, peak physical condition. Space travel isn’t forgiving, and it isn’t for the weak-hearted.

He should have closed the window. He has a problem with that, lately. Like keeping things open will bring him back, like leaving the door slightly ajar will mean he’ll be waiting on the other side. He’s mostly given up on that, though.

He doesn’t wait for Adam to come out of the bathroom at night anymore, glasses askew and a towel rubbing through messy, thick hair. Sometimes, he thinks he doesn’t even want him to. Those are still few and far inbetween, but he’s working on it. Shiro’s therapist thinks he’s healing.

There’s noise from the other room. Shiro’s heart beats once, twice, and then settles.

Keith is waiting for him. His knees are pulled up on one of the kitchen stools, hair pulled back as he helps himself to the stale cereal he’d left on top of the fridge. He raises a hand in greeting, then dips back in, sullen but present.

Shiro grins. There are new kinds of normal. Aches don’t ache so much after a while. When somethings gets broken, you learn to work around it. An arm, a leg. A body. A life.

“You’re not actually supposed to be here,” he points out, but there’s no firmness to it.

Keith’s look could kill, but luckily he’s already dying. “It’s like that’s supposed to stop me.” He pauses, and Shiro watches his expression. Keith’s worried, and he knows it, but what he doesn’t find makes all the difference.

Keith doesn’t pity him. Shiro doesn’t think he could. He knows too well himself what that looks like, how it cuts deeper than any knife he has in his collection.

“Shiro,” he says, drawing his attention back. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

His answer is automatic. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Keith slides off the stool. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he sticks them in the pockets of his uniform, slides closer to Shiro until their arms are touching. Shiro does the rest and pulls him in for a hug.

“Then you know I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he says. Shiro aches then, too, but some of the cold from the morning seeps out of him.

“Thanks, Keith. That means a lot.”

They stand there for a while, silent and touching. Shiro forgets about the pain. He forgets about Adam’s absence, about his empty apartment and the space he’s tried to fill in it. He listens to Keith’s breathing instead.

\---

Months earlier, Shiro’s doctor tells him the launch will have an adverse effect on his health. It’s exactly what he expected to hear, but he tenses afterwards anyway, fists clenched on the sides of the examination chair. The specifics are equally discouraging; space travel will put a strain on his body and likely cause rapid deterioration. If he goes through with it, it will be his first and only launch. The likelihood that he’s taking years off his life is probable.

Part of him considers giving it up. Adam is right. Even the launch itself will put immense physical pressure on his body, forcing him against odds he’s never needed to stack. There are days he can barely sit up straight without the pain seeping in, mornings he considers against forcing himself out of bed. The preparation exercises are enough to have him aching, crawling back into bed more exhausted with each passing day. He knows he’s killing himself faster than his body can.

If he’s a time bomb, this is setting the clock forward.

“Can I do it?” is what he asks. “Can I make it?”

“Technically,” the doctor says.

It’s enough for him. He gives his all-clear the next day. He pretends he doesn’t see Adam in the halls, weaves between a group of cadets to avoid him. He tells himself it’s not shame, and not pride, either -- this is what he needs to do.

Part of him is bitter, but he knows it’s not him. It’s the angry teenager who got given a diagnosis he couldn’t stomach and still swallow his dreams, who grit his teeth and kept his head in the stars anyway. Who put determination about self-preservation, who collapsed in a launch sim and went to classes the next day. The rest of him? He doesn’t blame Adam for not watching.

If he’s killing himself slowly, he might as well do it his way.

\---

Keith is fiercely independent. Today, this morning, he dogs at Shiro’s heels, following him like a shadow. Shiro doesn’t hold it against him. He finds himself comforted by it, turns to make sure Keith is still there. He tries to memorize him, not knowing why but knowing he needs to. Fear settles in and out of him, rattling like the chill of the air.

They stand in front of the launchpad, Keith bundled in one of Shiro’s old sweatshirts. His arms get lost in the too-big sleeves, and Shiro tries not to find it as endearing as he does. Tries not to let it shake him.

“It’s fucking cold,” is what Keith finally mutters, and Shiro hums in agreement. They stand in silence. “... I don’t want you to go.”

It doesn’t sound like it did when Adam said it. There’s no harshness there, no bite. Keith isn’t looking at him, and swallowed in Shiro’s sweatshirt, he looks smaller than he’s ever looked to Shiro.

“I’m afraid you won’t come back.”

Keith’s sickness has always been abandonment. It eats him out from his core, deteriorates from the inside out.

Shiro pulls him closer again. He thinks he hears Keith sniffle, but he can’t be sure.

“I’m coming back,” he promises. “Even if it kills me, Keith. I’ll make sure I get back to you.”

\---

In Keith’s younger, angrier moments, Shiro doesn’t think he believed him. Not until he slipped.

“You don’t _get it_ , Shiro,” he’d said, spitting mad and practically vibrating, gloved hands fisted at his sides. “You’ve never had problems like this, you don’t know what it’s like --”

“I’m _dying_ , Keith.”

It had been after a particularly brutal fight. Adam had left, silent and fuming, slammed their shared apartment door on his way out. Take care of yourself, Takashi. You’re pushing yourself too hard, you’re always pushing, why do you do this to yourself, why do you do this to me…

The opposite was stopping.

Keith quieted. “What?” He sounded far away, softer than Shiro can remember him sounding.

“Not now,” he said, aware of the hollowness in his own tone. “But it’s happening. My body isn’t working with me. I’m getting sicker, weaker, and I’ll be lucky if I even…”

The silence fell between them. Shiro’s cheeks were wet, Keith’s arms warm when they wrapped around him from behind.

“You’ll get there,” he promised. “You’ll get there, rocket man,” he says. “If anyone’s made for the stars, it’s you.”

\---

The launch rattles Shiro’s bones. It rattles his soul, too.

He tastes his own tears. He feels his own blood pumping. He sees his own dreams.

Reach for the stars, someone told him once, far away and distant.

 _Sometimes they’re too far away, Takashi,_ someone reminded him.

 _Rocket man,_ someone whispers.

Earth gets farther away. It disappears into nothing, the stars bursting forward like a million lights he’s suddenly bathed in.

Shiro thinks he could die happy, right then and there.


End file.
